Soprano Home Movies

I've been looking forward to the final
season of The Sopranos, since last year's
odd anticlimactic ending. That didn't dull my
anticipation for this season, because, I think
it was designed to set up the final episodes.

I love the show. A few of my Italian American
friends are offended. My friend's family is similar
to the Sopranos. I try to get him to discuss it, but,
he despises the show, and won't watch it.

For the longest time, I couldn't understand why.
His grandfather, the family's patriarch, was literally
a template for the original Godfather, Don Corleone.
My friend wears his last name with pride, yet, thinks
the Sopranos is demeaning, in the depiction of an
Italian-American organized crime family.

I often have to bite my tongue, when he speaks about
his family, because, they remind me of episodes and
characters in the Sopranos. When I've pointed
that out, he's gets upset.

The strangely real family values, and dysfunctional
characters, in the Sopranos, resonate with us as
Americans, more than this one ethnic family's story.
The popularity of the show has less to do with
Italian-Americans, the Italian mob, or any particular
ethnicity. It's just a prop, for it's complex story line.
But, I understand why being stereotyped is painful,
and sometimes heartbreaking, because we are all
much more complex than our lowest common
denominator.

I think the American dream is about finding Utopia,
and it's an archetypal yearning, embraced by all
cultures, and nationalities.

Ironically, the actual crime syndicates in America,
are no longer the Italian made guys, of the 20th
Century. They may represent less than 1% of
actual organized crime these days.

I think in the Sopranos, David Chase, is actually
eulogizing a culture which is anachronistic. After
several generations in America, we become
something entirely different than our original
ancestors, no matter who we are, and what
brought them to America.

Still, our roots run deep, and each of us are affected
in personal, and at times, in unexpected ways.

In my case, my mom's family were Bolsheviks,
who came to America, not as refugees, but,
in first-class cabins, in possession of a small
fortune, to help destroy democracy. A century
later, I am a Christian-Jewish American Princess,
ostensibly the antithesis of them.

My friend, whose grandfather was the great Don,
and "Original Gangsta", has no affinity to his real
cultural heritage. He hates all violence, and eschews
the stereotypes that other ethnic groups seem to
enjoy portrayed in the Sopranos.

My friend is gay, and he knows his grandfather
may have disowned him if he knew. On last season's
Sopranos, Vito was whacked, when he came out
of the closet. This echoes that grievous sentiment
shared by another era of Sicilian family honor.

My own great-grandfather probably would have
personally shot me, if I had a time machine and
met him face to face, in his era.

From all the terrible things I know are true, about
these people who gave me my genes, there's really
nothing that I identify with about them. I think it's
better to be dead than red, as the saying went.

Yet, I have an old Soviet flag hanging in my room,
not because I'm a Marxist, but, because my relative
designed the symbol of the hammer and sickle on
the red background.

I once became so enraged, while reading Alexander
Solzhenitsyn's description of my grandfather's
family, that I threw the book at my wall, leaving
a dent.

Something deep in me reacted viscerally to
this man's words, and his hatred towards
my family, in the same way as I might feel
towards Osama Bin Laden. I react this
way towards those who come to America,
these days, who I perceive have an agenda
to destroy our way of life. I hate them, even
while I struggle with my own family's origins,
because they were no better.

They come from a world so vastly different, that it
is like trying to understand a culture from another
galaxy. It's the alien nature of immigrants, and
their stereotypes, that we respond to in others,
and subconsciously, often defend within ourselves.

Moses was raised from infancy, as Pharoah's
own son, yet, at age 40, reacted murderously,
when he saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew
worker. He was as far removed from that
Hebrew man, as I am from my Bolshevik
ancestors. There was a primordial link,
which overwhelmed his privileged Egyptian
upbringing. As we know, he left with the
Hebrew man, abandoning all he knew
in Egypt.

Stereotypes affect us, because even if they
don't define us, personally, they connect to
something as genetically valid as our hair color.
I often change my hair color, but, I can't
change the follicle. It's this esoteric root of
memory, that supports our identities, even
when we are the polar opposite of our
ancestors, evolved into new creatures,
called Americans.

The popular jock, Imus made an off the
cuff remark about a black woman's basketball
team being "nappy headed ho's."

I don't think it was meant to be a racist invective,
just a trivial rant from a wiseguy who speaks his
mind. He probably thought he was as benign
as Chris Rock, who is a comedy genius.

In fact, I think because he's not consciously racist,
was why he failed to understand how the words
coming from him, a white man, were what made
them like daggers to the hearts of many black
women.

I watched the news, and an elegant, articulate
black news anchor's face displayed pain, as she
sourly reported his profuse apologies.

From her expression, it was obvious that his
heartfelt remorse was dismissed. He wounded
her, even though her own hair was silky and
light-colored, and she may be mixed-race, by
the color of her greenish hazel eyes.

The finest comedy, in my opinion, is when a
brilliant comedian, like Chris Rock can engage
the "N" word, and reduce whites and other
ethnic groups to their most redundant traits.
Audiences roar, tears rolling down their faces.
In satirical levity, we become blood brothers,
but, these shared moments of unity are rare.

Generally, as human beings, we are touchy,
and defensive, about these things. I remember
when the Hispanics lobbied to get rid of the
"Taco Bell" chihuahua, because they felt the
dog's *accent* was demeaning to them.
It may sound ludicrous, to us, but, their
sensitivity was profoundly real.

The Native Americans have vehemently
resented being portrayed with stereotypes.
The innocuous wooden Indian is deeply hurtful.

Even the formerly colorless "White Anglo-Saxon
Protestants," are no longer immune to sweeping
generalities. They are now portrayed as moronic
separatists, rednecks, flatulent power brokers,
or stupid and dull crackers, and of course,
po' white trash trying to be black.

It's strange how we react, as if we are totally
naked before large fun house mirrors. While the
images are grossly distorted, they still resemble us
enough to make us think that the grotesque reflections
are what others are seeing.

Aside from my asundry philosophies about
stereotypes, I think the writers of The Sopranos
brilliantly depict every family's American dream.
Immigrant sons of peasants become successful
Americans. It's a masterpiece of satire and
tragedy, with a resonant common ground which
speaks to us each differently, as Americans.